


Home.

by 3BeesAndCoffee3



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bubble Bath, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Likes to Cook, Cooking, Cuddling, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Nervous Bucky Barnes, PTSD, Past Sexual Abuse, major fluff, minor arguing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3BeesAndCoffee3/pseuds/3BeesAndCoffee3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this for my friends B-Day and I thought I'd post it for y'all, because Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [Home](http://hey-kids-want-some-avengers.tumblr.com/)

The soft sound of cars passing stories bellow flow swiftly through the open window, a gentle breeze doing little to cool down the humid and overheated one bedroom apartment you were currently in. The bed is large but the mattress is stiff and still smells vaguely of cigarettes from whoever it had been obtained from.

There are a good twelve or so blankets on the bed but they’re all piled at the foot of the bed, too hot for anything other than a light sheet at most. You lay awake, propped up on your side as you watch Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quick uneven pace, his breathes shallow and wavering, skin slicked with sweat. You wish you could touch him and comfort him better, maybe even enough he wouldn’t wake up, but you know it won’t work and touching him won’t help. It’s nearly impossible to wake him up now, his nightmares carrying him too deep down. You can shout and shake him but nothing works. Still, it’s dangerous to touch him during a nightmare. When he wakes up he isn’t always himself, and either way, whether he is or isn’t, he has little control when he isn’t aware of reality yet and his reflexes are sharp and fast.

Sometimes you wish you could get him to leave this tiny, cramped apartment. Get him to stay with Steve and Sam, somewhere other than where he had hidden for months before anyone even found him. You know now, sense he’s trying to have a life again, with you, that change isn’t easy for him. 

He doesn’t trust easily and this place holds a sense of comfort for him in simple remembrance. It’s where he started to put himself back together. Sudden change often seems to trigger rash and either violent actions or severe flashbacks leaving him in bed, unwilling to move, talk or eat anything for days. So, you didn’t push much. You let him gradually adjust to things as he needed as slowly as he needed. It was taking a long time, sure, but he was already making improvement. 

You jump up, being ripped from your thoughts, eyes wide and heart pounding as Bucky jolts into a sitting position, hunched over, chest heaving and shoulders shaking with sobs, screams ripping their way from his throat. You move to his side, hands hovering mere inches above his skin, waiting for some sign to show it’s okay for you to touch him. Your voice is soft when you speak, just above a whisper. “Shh, baby, it was just a dream..it’s okay, I’m here.” 

He’s shouting, words slurred together in a string of tense hysteria. It’s Russian, not English. You can’t make out much but it’s enough to know roughly which dream it was. He always says the same thing. After a good five minutes solid of him sobbing and screaming into his hands, shoulders shaking, his left hand clenched, you realize why it’s not so bad you live here, alone with him, separated from other people. 

You hear him mumble your name after a while, enough to confirm its safe for you to touch him. You gently press your hand against his back, rubbing small circles into the tense skin and muscle, working from his shoulders down. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, it was just a dream.” You sooth, feeling a small pang of guilt knowing that’s only partially true. Most his dreams are things that actually happened at some point, just usually worse. 

Eventually you start to calm him down, his body pressed against yours as you hold him. He’s quiet, but that’s pretty common after one of his worse nightmares, his shoulders are still trembling and his breathes are shaky but he’s doing his best to breathe, holding your hand with his own shaky one. He never lets you touch his left one. 

You run a hand gently through his hair, carefully working out all the knots and tangles until it’s smoothed out and soft. You keep muttering things softly to him, trying to calm him until maybe, hopefully he could fall back asleep, though the probability he won’t is pretty high. “I love you.” You say softly against his head, thumb rubbing circles into the back of his flesh hand, his body still tense and ridged, a slight tremor running through his body. You don’t expect a response. “How about we take a bath, hm? Nice and cool?” You ask gently, watching sweat bead at his temple from the panic and heat. 

He nods after a few minutes and you smile softly. You’ve known him long enough to know what helps calm him down. You slowly ease him up off the bed, his hair falling slightly in his face, his metal hand grasping your shoulder for support. His breathing is ragged, like he just ran the length of the city and back. 

You carefully and slowly lead him over to the bathtub, it’s in the corner of the room, only a curtain blocking it off from the rest of the cramped apartment. “How about you get undressed and I’ll get some towels and the bubble bath?” You ask, treating him as you usually would, your voice just a touch softer. You know he hates it when you treat him like a child, so you just cuddle him close and kiss his temple instead. You stray far away from anything close to sexual, you never kiss him or touch him or undress him when he’s like this. Not ever. You learned pretty early on, finding his body shaking more and more the more times you kiss him. His sobs worsening as you try to hold him, undress him for a shower. You know why now. You know what they did to him. Not everything, of course. Not even Steve knows everything, but you know enough. You know the agents did touch him though, you know they didn’t listen when he begged them to stop. You know enough. 

He nods again, waiting for you to walk away before starting to shakily undress. You head over to the old, wooden cabinet that holds all your towels and soaps, one of the drawers hanging uselessly by a screw, rust making its way gradually up the metal hinges. You can’t help but think about Bucky as you grab the softest towel you have. Images of various HYDRA agents hands running over his skin flash through your head as you try to imagine what it must be like for him. His damaged mind trying to be what he used to be before everything, meanwhile pieces of damaged memory and all the lies HYDRA placed still wedged in there. It must be hell. Unable to forget everything they did. His dreams a constant refreshed memory of what they did.

When you come back he’s perched on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around his bare chest, body trembling as tears run down his cheeks. “Hey, hey…it’s okay.” You say softly, gently tucking his hair behind his ear, setting the towels down and running the water. “I’m right here.” You comfort, guilt knotting up in your chest. You should have known better than to leave him completely, you could have talked to him at the very least. Instead you left him there to overthink. 

You slowly calm him down enough to finish getting the bath ready, his right hand staying against your body at all times. 

Eventually you’re both eased into the tub, the water warm but not too hot, considering the humid weather. He’s calmer now, quiet, his breathing evening out. He leans back against you in the tub, his soft hair resting against your bare chest. “I’m sorry, doll..” He says quietly, running a hand gently over the arm you have around him, raising the hairs.

“Don’t be, it’s okay.” You reassure, smiling softly. You know he feels guilt, for causing all this commotion, you don’t mind a bit, you never have, it’s just part of the package. But you know he does. He always does. After a few minutes of silence you smile softly. “Though, I’m kinda hungry, are you?” You ask, eyes flicking down just in time to watch his lips curve up into a pleased smile. 

“I can’t tell if you just want to cheer me up, Y/N, or if you just really want me to cook for you, Doll.” He chuckles, leaning back more, letting the cool water rush over his bare and sweaty chest, his metal arm dipping lightly into the water, his fingers flicking mindlessly at the fading bubbles.

You smile, looking up at the creaky and unstable looking wood ceiling above your heads, sighing softly. “Both?” You giggle. You both stay in the tub until all the bubbles are gone. “Hey Buck?” You ask, letting a hand card through his hair. 

“Hm?” 

“Don’t you wanna move?” You bite your lip, you’ve brought this up a million times before. It’s always the same. 

Bucky frowns, sitting up more to unplug the drain and let out the water that had now grown to be a rather uncomfortable and sticky temperature. “No.” He answers simply, standing so you can get up.

“Bucky, I know you don’t like change but this place is literally falling apart. I think it would be good for you to move out, I think it would be good for us. It’s not healthy to be cooped up inside this shack all the time.” You frown, handing him his towel as you wrap your own around your body. “You know Steve would let us stay with Sam and him.” 

Bucky glares, wrapping the soft towel around his waist, folding his dripping arms over his chest like a child. “I’m not going to live in the same vicinity as him, we’ve been over this, Y/N.”

“Oh come on Buck, it’s not like you’d be sharing a bed with the guy, besides, the way Steve talks about Sam, I don’t think he’s home that much anyways.” You argue, making your way to the bed and slipping on your pajamas.

“Doll, I love you, but no. I’d kill him within the first week.” He mumbles, heading over to the stove, putting his focus into that instead. “I’m fine here, I don’t need to leave.” He says, voice softer than usual, uncertainty lacing his words. You know he’s unsure what to do or how to do it but he’s going crazy, locked up in here. He’s written down every memory he can recall, he has sense before you met him, and now he just sits here and pours over the pages day after day like he’ll forget them all in an instant if he forgets to read them for one day. Like they’re all being held in place by a single thread. 

He’s cooking an egg now, bare feet walking swiftly to the small fridge in the corner to grab another. You think over your words carefully before speaking. “Bucky, I trust you.” He turns to face you, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “I trust you to keep it together, you have for so long and I know you’re scared to break this, but you won’t. I trust you.” 

He sighs, turning back to the stove, busying himself with cracking eggs and pouring the contents into the hot pan with a quiet sizzle. “I don’t.” You frown, your eyes examining a scar above his hip bone that’s just above where his towel ends. You remember him talking about the slowly fading scars covering his body, how he got them, how the agents would wait until he could hardly function right after they wiped him and how then they would have their way with him. Knives, hands, boots. Whatever they could find.

“Why not?” You try, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“I don’t want to draw attention to myself and the way I am, with the flashbacks, the nightmares, it’s not a great way to keep a low profile.” He explained calmly, grinding some pepper over the eggs as he clicks off the stove. “I’m not keeping you here, I just…”

“No, no, I know. I just want what’s best for you. I’m staying.” You smile, too stubborn for him to even bother arguing.

The next day, early morning, that point in the day where the sun is out just enough to make you bring out your sunglasses but not enough to stop chills from running up your arms in the shade. 

The sky bright and the air smelling like dew and of rusted metal from the old rain pipes lining the block. Thin, plastic sacks hang from your arm as you continue to fill them with fruits and vegetables, specifically ones you know Bucky likes. This is one of the few places you’ve found you can actually drag him, getting him into the sun and around people. It’s just a small market a few blocks from the house, both of you here for the usual run for restocking the nearly empty fridge. 

The street is lined with carts and blankets where the various people are selling. “Hey Bucky, are we out of plums?” You ask, sifting through a crate of the fruit, the smell warm and ripe. It takes you a few seconds to realize that not only did he not answer but he just isn’t there. You look around, eyes scanning the near crowds. He usually stays close. Your first impulse is to call him, though he rarely even turns his cell on.

You don’t see him and you feel yourself growing worked up, a sense of helplessness washing over you as you search. After a few more seconds of panic, your heart racing with protectiveness and nerves, you see him, he’s still a good block away from you and you realize you aren’t entirely sure when he stopped following you, but he’s there. Standing there, hands in his hoodie pockets as he looks up at a house. It’s a nice house. It’s not huge, but it’s at least two bedrooms and the paint is fresh, a light blue with white trim. The grass is slightly overgrown, a partially toppled fence surrounding the perimeter of the house, but it still looks nice. The houses around it are vacant, have been for ages. That’s when you realize he’s looking at the sign out front, more than the house itself, a mere foot away from him that just reads For Sale. You feel your stomach flip slightly, hope flaring up. 

You’d move anywhere he wanted, even out of town if it meant getting him out of that tiny place. If it meant him happy and continuing to get better. Eyes still locked on Bucky, you hand over your cash and shove a few tomatoes in a bag before wandering over to him. You open and close your mouth a few times, unable to stop grinning. “It’s cute.” You say, looking up at him. He looks at you and nods, expression slightly distraught. “Do you want to move…?” He asks after a moment.

“Only if you want to, if you’re ready.” You assure, smiling as you hand him an apple that he bites into immediately, juice dripping down his chin. 

He nods, chewing before looking back up at the house. “I think I do” he sighs, shrugging. “I mean, I think it would be nice, and it would be…better.” He sighs. “For us.” 

You grin and stand on your tip toes, leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I love you.” He smiles, his proudness showing through.

“I love you too.” He says, pulling you against his side. He’s warm and safe and he smells like brown sugar. 

It’s about two weeks later that you’re both sitting in a dusty and empty, one bedroom apartment as you tape up the last box, smiling as you stand. You pop your back, body stiff and aching from so much moving, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet. It’s the last box in the house, it’s heavy and filled with books, his journals, mostly. Bucky glances down at it, eyes focused, his feet close to one of the corners before he gets up and leaves without the box, leaving every memory, every page, word, letter all behind, his metal hand clasping yours as he speaks. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
